


Puppy Love

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: Being proud of Orlo, Childhood Sweethearts, F/M, Fluff, Romance, its all sunshine and roses i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:22:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: Request: A fic where reader was Orlo's childhood friend and first puppylove kiss, and surprises him at the palace many years later. As a kid he was more bold and carefree, saying he wants to do great things for Russia when he grows up. Reader is shocked by how much he's changed since then.
Relationships: Orlo (The Great TV 2020)/Original Female Character(s), Orlo / Reader
Kudos: 7





	Puppy Love

“Orlo?”

The bureaucrat’s head turned, his conversation with a younger man quickly ended as the boy scurried away.

“That cannot be you, surely!” He called, rushing down the corridor to meet you, his feet thudding against the carpet.

Your escorting guard quickly leaving your side and returning to his post. Orlo’s recognition of you seemed to be all the recommendation you needed to be trusted without armed supervision in the heart of the palace.

Orlo reached out as though to hug you, changing his mind at the last minute. His sudden insecurity meant you instead wrapped him up in your arms, trapping his hands against his own sides as you pulled him tightly to you.

You felt the pressure of his chin on your shoulder as he hummed lightly, and you squeezed him tighter still for a moment before letting go.

When you stepped back, you could hardly believe the man you were looking at. His finery, his carefully styled hair, he looked every part the ridiculous bureaucrat he had always wanted to be. You blinked away tears as his slack-jawed expression of shock turned to a smile, as toothy and daft as you remembered from your teenage years.

You shook your head as you took him in.

“My god, all those big words…” you paused for a moment, smiling back at him, “and you did it. Fuck, Orlo. You really did it.”

The image of him, framed by the most expensive artwork, penning the most important documents, surrounded by the most influential folks, you realised he had found a way to fulfil his own dreams.

He was at the helm of Russia.

Just as he had told you, fresh out of his tutoring lessons, running through the grounds between your parents’ house.

Suddenly you regretted surprising him like this. Perhaps he barely remembered you, the folk from back home who he had shed like a snake might shed a restrictive older skin.

“We have much to catch up on,” you choked out, trying to escape the downward spiral of thoughts forming in your mind.

“Indeed!”

Orlo did not seem unhappy. He seemed the contrary, ecstatic, whatever business he had been on forgotten.

“Come to my apartment. We can speak there,” he offered giddily, his arm held out to you in a way which brought a pang to your chest.

He could still be a gangly teenager, fumbling through both of your first ever dates, imitating the gentlemen he’d read about in books and watched try to court his sisters. But there was no shake in his arm now, no desperation in his voice as he begged you to walk with him.

You looped your arm around his with no hesitation, his sleeve impossibly soft against your fingertips.

“Only if your fancy palace friends will not mind,” you teased, your voice a whisper for fear of causing fuss.

“I care very little what they think,” he told you firmly, his chin jutted out.

He was more powerful than everyone you had met here so far, you realised, as he peacocked around, nodding to guards and guiding you to his apartment.

“I am so proud of you,” you told him suddenly.

It was like the feeling had been too big to keep in your body, and he paused mid-step, making both of you stumble from your brisk pace. He apologised, flustered, and steadied you. The two of you stood silently in the corridor for a moment before he tugged at your arm again.

You wanted to address your words, maybe even apologise for being so out of line, but it felt wrong to bring it up. You were at his room soon enough, and you smiled as you saw it.

Although clearly decorated the same as plenty of other places in this palace, it was so obviously filled with him. Comfortable drapes, books, papers, fine artwork, somehow messy – even in this place where everything was tidied by servants.

He left you at the door with a mumbled apology.

“One second, I am so sorry for the mess,” he called to you, as he stacked papers and frowned at new letters which had appeared on his desk.

He opened none of them, simply brushing them aside, before beginning to collect the books which were strewn across the sofas by the fire. There was only one armchair free, you noticed, the rest occupied with great tomes in beautiful leather copies. He hosted no frequent company here, you noted.

In the corner of the room you spied his bed, half-hidden by drapes which were held back with ornate chords and pushed against a corner. It was almost an afterthought, hidden. And certainly rarely shared, if the sole bedside table was anything to judge from.

“You have a beautiful space here,” you noted politely, still standing.

He had not settled yet, and it felt rude to assume he would want you here.

“Thank you, though I fear it is nothing much to look at,” he grimaced, “I am afraid my work leaves me very little time to relax here.”

“Of course.”

He suddenly looked up at you, before gasping in shock. You almost laughed, as the cool, regal diplomat you had reunited with in the hallway peeled away.

He was still your Orlo, trembling to ask you for his first kiss in the garden room of his family home.

You quashed a smile as he gestured to an armchair beside the fire with an outstretched hand and an awkward nod. You sat quietly, as he continued to fuss. You felt a little bad for surprising him. Writing ahead might have been a pertinent idea, since you seeing the mess in his home had caused him so much stress.

Truthfully, you didn’t mind in the slightest. It was like you had walked back into his life with nothing changed, to see his messy childhood bedroom transplanted into this grand palace. His handwriting was neater, his library more elaborate and well-travelled, and the wax seals no longer stamped with old spirit bottles. But it was the same, in a way, as when you had teased him by folding his essays into paper planes, or drawn games onto parchment stolen from his father’s office with ink-stained fingers. His nervousness had barely changed too, still somehow endearing in a fully grown man.

Orlo cleared his throat.

“I might, um, call for tea, if you would like?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Right.”

As he left, he looked back at you for a moment, as if he was checking you were still there. He turned away again sharply at your knowing eyebrow raise.

He was gone for longer than you had expected, assuming he could simply summon someone with a thought to make him tea, but it took a matter minutes before he re-entered the room.

“It will be brought up shortly,” he muttered, wringing his hands.

“Wonderful,” you smiled, waiting for him to sit in the armchair angled towards your own.

As he did, he held your eye contact for a moment too long, and you were forced to acknowledge the spark of hope which had led you all the way to the palace.

That he might still want you.

“How are you?”

“What brings you to St. Petersburg?”

The two of you spoke at once, both immediately breaking down into peals of laughter as the moment passed and the ice was shattered.

“You first!” Orlo insisted, a smile on his face as he watched you intently.

He had relaxed a little, ceased fidgeting and crossed one leg over the other as he leant back into his chair.

“Well, I felt perhaps I ought to visit a friend I have been missing for several years now. I wonder if you might help me find him?”

“I will do my best,” Orlo chuckled, sensing your game.

“Well, the last time I saw him… he did not wear glasses,” you looked pointedly at the frames which sat on Orlo’s nose.

He snatched them off quickly, and you broke your train of thought with a laugh.

“What else?” Orlo teased.

“And he had this crazy dream he might follow in his father’s footsteps, then quickly surpass him. and become right-hand man to the Emperor.”

Orlo feigned shock, and his expression was so ridiculous you could hardly look at him. Acting had never been a strength of his. Suddenly his face smoothed, as the doors opened and tea was silently set up on the scattered side-tables Orlo had just cleared.

“Where did you last see him?”

The moment the servants left, Orlo asked the question, and your heart sank to your stomach at his sombreness.

“Clambering into a carriage with his father, on the way to the royal palace. He had a cut on his cheek – ”

“I could barely even shave,” Orlo interjected wistfully.

“ – and some mad dream to survive at Court.”

The pair of you sat in silence for a moment, and you took the chance to lean forwards and take your tea, cradling it in your hands. The cup was too hot, but the heat on your skin grounded you, distracted you from the pace your heart hammered against your ribs.

You couldn’t look at Orlo’s wide eyes, unchanged since you had shared sweet childhood love all those years ago.

“He rather broke my heart when he left, actually,” you persevered, seeing Orlo’s face fall to a true frown.

“I always wondered,” he sighed. His tone was tinted with a curious, nostalgic sadness.

You said nothing.

“Did he?”

“Hm?”

“Survive at Court?”

You tried not to seem bitter, passing your cup hand to hand, and staring into the grate of the unlit fire. It was already built for the night.

“I barely knew. His letters grew rarer and rarer. But now, I realise… he seems to be thriving. So my worry was unfounded.”

Your tight smile drew a mournful sigh from Orlo as you pressed your teacup to your lips, taking the barest sip.

“I always wanted to return. And yet… it grew harder each year.”

“You weren’t at either funeral.”

You had been there, for his parents’ funerals. Hugged his longest serving staff and comforted his sisters. The man himself had never shown up.

“That’s why I… couldn’t. I sent money. Letters. But my whole life, my career… I cannot leave. Not for a day. If the Emperor needs me, I must be here. My life, quite literally, depends on it.”

His father had returned, you wanted to scream. But you could never be angry at Orlo. Not when he seemed so truly sad.

“Thank you for being there. For everyone. When I was too cowardly.”

“It was truly my pleasure.”

You loved his family. Knew how they worried for him. Seeing the palace now, in all its splendour and raucous, you realised just how easy it must have been for him to forget everyone outside of these walls.

Orlo’s guilt was eating at him, you could tell, as he admired his own paintings he had seen a thousand times.

“Now my question,” you insisted, and Orlo’s face broke into a smile.

“Remind me?”

“It was rather simple,” you teased, “I asked: ‘how are you?’”

He shrugged wordlessly, and you groaned.

“That is not an answer. You must have news, something to tell me, after so long apart!”

“I am fine! Busy, perhaps too busy, but perfectly well. I have been lucky.”

You rolled your eyes, catching Orlo smirk at the unladylike gesture. He had always secretly enjoyed any way to fight against decorum, it had been one of your favourite things to do as teenagers. Small acts of rebellion. Eating with the wrong fork, sneaking into one another’s rooms, making out in the greenhouse… and the attic… and the kitchens…

The pair of you had been caught often.

But it had been worth the scolding.

“Ask me more specific questions, perhaps,” he laughed, “I can think of nothing to tell you.”

You rest your elbow on the arm of your chair, leaning towards him and propping your chin up as if in thought. But you knew the question you wanted answered.

Just not how to ask.

“Still an unmarried man?”

He nodded silently, and you raised your eyebrows at his uncooperativeness.

Orlo took a deep breath.

“I presume you are wondering why? Aside from the obvious,” he jibed at himself. You winced.

“In truth, no one ever measured up my first love, from back at home,” he confessed, trying to revive your game, “perhaps you have met her?”

“I have no idea,” you told him pointedly.

“And I am sorry for that. For all my teenage boy bravado, I could never… I am still not very good at… you meant a lot to me. A huge amount. Truly, I have never looked at anyone else without thinking of you.”

Your jaw tensed in muted surprise as he gushed, and you saw how he laughed at himself. His confidence had only left him in your time apart, you realised. Perhaps acting was a skill he had honed, expertly playing the role of the man you had seen in the corridor, the brilliant mind who penned the most important correspondence in Russia, crushed under the weight of his own insecurity.

“It is rather a joke, among people here, actually. That I have no luck with women. Privately, I suspect I used all my luck up far too early in life.”

“I find myself believing the same,” you admitted.

Orlo seemed suddenly emboldened, and you caught his eyes glance to your hands, perhaps trying to spot a ring. He would leave his search unsatisfied, if he sought a wedding band. There was none.

He gulped before looking back to your face, wringing his hands once again, his nervousness back.

“It broke my heart that I could not convince you to join me here, all those years ago.”

“I was a child, Orlo, just like you were. I had people, family, friends, I needed to stay. I could not leave like you, even if I had wanted to.”

The room was quiet, but noise trickled in. Ladies out on the lawn giggling and quiet footsteps in the corridor outside, the loud conversations of men talking past the windows downstairs. You wondered if anyone ever found a moment of peace in this place.

Although, you hesitated to admit, busyness held some draw for you now. The quietness of home had begun to drive you mad.

“And now?”

“And now, what?” You asked, not daring to look at Orlo’s face.

Naked hope was painted across his features, raw and exposed, his own tea cooling on the side as he leant towards you with anticipation.

“Could you come with me, were you convinced?”

“To live here?”

As though the plain words might change your mind, Orlo nodded silently. A distant gunshot sounded outside, making him wince from poor timing, and making you jump in shock.

“With me?” He offered.

“Were I convinced…” You said carefully, “My future is my own to choose.”

“It would be my honour to convince you.”


End file.
